


Mark 15-34

by bonebo



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: a little creepy, process of becoming a phase sixer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 19:10:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1277674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He will be a plague, he knows. A wraith.</p><p>But Primus does it hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mark 15-34

This is an honor.

He can't deny his excitement as he walks into the room where the change is to take place, keenly aware of the optics that look down upon him—Megatron's, he knows, expectant and distant, and perhaps Overlord is watching as well, anxious and curious of what he will soon be going through—and the reality of it all hits him like a blast in the chest as he's told to sit upon the berth. He calmly obeys and glances over to the cluster of mechs huddled in the corner, all surgeons and he hopes they're good, because as much as he's been looking forward to this day he can admit that he's a little skittish too. Granted, it's not really the laser scalpels that bother him so much, not really, but the idea of someone prying him open and poking around at his innards and changing everything about who he is, who he will be, is a bit unnerving.

To say the least.

But no one needs to know that, least of all the high command watching. Spark steeled and vocalizer calm, he tells the medics he's ready.

 

___

 

He's going to be a scourge, he tells himself, going to be so powerful and so feared no one will dare even speak his name. He's becoming a legend.

But Primus, it _hurts_.

Even the heavy metal straps binding him to the table—just a _precaution,_ Megatron says, just _in case_ —are not enough to keep his frame from jerking as the electricity regularly pulses through his circuits, wracks his brain module; it's to keep him online, he knows, _he must stay online_ , but all the same surely a less painful method could've been found.

Had someone been willing to search for it. 

He can't feel his arms but he watches with bright optics as one is lifted, held aloft and cut open—he loses sight as he winces at the agony, dentae pressed so tightly together in an effort to stifle his scream that he's afraid his jaw might break. 

_This is an honor._

He forces his weary mind to wrap around the statement, let nothing else inside his helm—this is an honor, he was hand-chosen by Megatron himself, this is going to make him a warrior so elite, so deadly, that he will be remembered and feared for all time. He may eventually go offline but his name will live on, whispered by millions of voices that quiver with fear and lingering in the darkest recesses of their society: Black Shadow, the slayer of billions, the ultimate weapon of destruction.

But that, in and of itself, requires that he _stay online_.

Through it all, the agony of the lasers cutting through cable and wire, the armor being pulled from his frame, he keeps his thoughts focused on the one task— _online, online, he must stay online._ It becomes a mantra that plays through his helm, getting its beat from the rapid pulse of his spark and its urgency from the fear that rushes through his circuits, until everything he has—everything he _is_ , whatever little that may be—knows it to be truth.

He must stay online, if only to ensure that the transformation goes well, and that he does not fade out in his dreams.


End file.
